Glad Grace
by jtav
Summary: Oliver seems to be the only one who notices that all is still not well with Ginny Weasley. A disastrous Quidditch practice provides a chance to help.


Thanks to Bookofsecrets for the beta.

It was the worst practice that Oliver could remember. He blamed the Dementors. Everyone in the castle seemed grimmer and more sluggish than usual, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team was no exception. Angelina fumbled a reverse pass to Katie. Fred sent a Bludger wide, missing his target completely. Harry was so distracted that he missed the Snitch fluttering right in front of him. Even Oliver himself was not immune.

They were supposed to be practicing penalty shots. Alicia flew straight down the pitch, Quaffle in hand. Oliver flew between goalposts as fast as his Cleansweep Eight would take him. He watched Alicia out of the corner of one eye, waiting for her to commit herself. She drifted almost imperceptibly to the left. So that was her game, then. He steeled himself and prepared to knock the Quaffle away from the left-hand scoring hoop.

Alicia swerved at the last possible moment and made a mad dash for the right-hand hoop. She threw. Oliver lunged for the Quaffle. He leaned too far forward, nearly overbalancing and knocking himself off his broom. The Quaffle grazed his fingers as it flew into the hoop. Alicia grinned, and the rest of the team applauded from the sidelines.

Oliver cursed mentally. Stupid! He should have made that save; he had made it a thousand times before. They would never win the Cup if he kept playing like this. He would be the laughingstock of Gyffindor, known as the Captain who had squandered the best Seeker ever seen because he couldn't make an elementary save. No professional team would have him, and he would be stuck working in his father's apothecary shop for the rest of his life.

His mental rant was interrupted by the sight of a figure in the stands. It was small, female, and red-haired. Oliver's first thought was that she was a Slytherin spy. She was not sitting in front like most people who came to watch practices would have but tucked away in a corner. Oliver would not have noticed her if he had not been at this precise spot. She sat hunched over, hands on knees, watching them intently. No, not intently. The girl looked positively enraptured, as if nothing else in the world existed but this Quidditch practice. No spy would be that enthusiastic. He peered closer and then blinked in surprise. It was Ginny Weasley.

He had never seen her like this, her eyes bright and her face aglow with some private ecstasy. Fred and George always said that their sister was a chatterbox, but he hadn't believed them. She barely spoke to anyone unless spoken to and was always by herself. She had no hobbies that he was aware of, unless he counted her transparently obvious crush on Harry Potter. Fred and George had never mentioned that she was at all interested in Quidditch, yet here she was. He wondered idly if she had any of the talent of her brothers.

Oliver dismissed that line of thought. Ginny Weasley's hobbies weren't any of his business. The sorry state of his team, however, was. He landed and clapped his hands for attention. "We were dreadful. Hufflepuff will flatten us if we keep this up. I realize that these aren't ideal circumstances. Slytherin has forced a schedule change, trying to throw us off our game." He drove his fist into his palm for emphasis. "We can't let them. We'll show this school what Gyffindor House is made of!"

They burst into cheers. Oliver waited for the boisterous show of house spirit to subside before continuing. "But if we're going to do that, we need to practice. I expect you all back here after dinner."

There was a collective groan. "Lay off, Wood," said George. "We'll be practicing every night this week as it is. Twice in one day is a bit mental, even for you."

"Besides, don't you have tobook the pitch in advance?" asked Fred.

He smiled. "Nobody's scheduled for tonight. Madame Hooch won't mind." He didn't add that he made a point to memorize the opposing teams' practice schedules just in case he needed the pitch on short notice.

"I've got a Charms test to study for," said Angelina.

"I promised Hermione I'd help her with something."

Soon it was obvious that everyone else had prior commitments. He sighed. He needed them to practice, but more than that, he needed them not to revolt. "Fine. I'll see all of you here tomorrow. Get a good night's sleep. I expect you all to be in top form."

He marched off to the changing room, still in a foul mood about the way practice had gone and doing his best not to let it show. Captains had to put on a brave face; sulking lowered team morale. Still, he couldn't help but be worried about the upcoming game. Harry was his best player, and he was distracted by that business with Sirius Black. Oliver hoped it wouldn't affect his Seeking abilities too much.

He wasn't feeling much better that evening as he sat in the common room attempting to do his Transfiguration homework. The text swam before his eyes, and it was only with difficulty that he could concentrate. He wasn't stupid -- whatever jibes Flint might make behind his back -- but schoolwork had always been something to be slogged through. Quidditch was the only thing that came easily to him. He knew he could make a professional career of it, if only he could get noticed. To get noticed, he needed to win the Cup. He thought longingly of the empty pitch. It was practically unnatural for no one to be practicing when it was available. He sighed and did his best not to think about it. His team was busy, and he couldn't very well practice by himself.

He looked up, and his eyes landed on Ginny Weasley sitting on the couch. She was staring at some point on the far wall. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her expression was somewhere between wistful and haunted as if she were remembering a dream that had started off pleasantly but had rapidly degenerated into a nightmare. Oliver suspected this was not far from the truth. Percy had told him the broad outlines, if not the details, about what had happened to her last year -- about the diary and about how a young He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had bewitched her. He must have looked horrified because Percy had shaken his head and assured him that Ginny was fine.

She did not look fine. She looked like someone pretending to be fine and failing miserably. It annoyed him that he appeared to be the only one who had noticed. The Weasleys should have noticed. Even Harry should have guessed that something was amiss with Ginny, given all the time he spent with her family. Perhaps it was to be expected. He had long since decided that Harry was the only person on the planet who was worse at dealing with people than he was. From what he could see, Ron wasn't much better. Fred and George were pranksters and the best Beaters a Captain could ask for but not the most sensitive people in existence. Percy might have done something, but his world extended no further than his exams this year. It was a pity that Ginny was not a NEWT subject.

It should not have fallen to Oliver of all people to notice how much she was still suffering. He was not good at comforting people. Since he'd been appointed Captain three years ago, there were times when one of his younger teammates would come to him, crying about how they were failing Potions or their parents were fighting. He would pat them awkwardly on the shoulder and wait for Angelina or one of the other girls to notice his distress and offer the upset student a sympathetic ear and the occasional glass of pumpkin juice. He marveled at how easily they did it. Comfort, like schoolwork, was another thing he had to work at.

He recalled how Ginny looked at the ill-fated Quidditch practice earlier that morning. He could scarcely believe the girl watching them with rapt attention and the one staring distractedly at nothing in particular were the same person. He much preferred the first Ginny. She had seemed more alive in those few moments then he had ever seen her. He found he wanted nothing more at the moment than to make her that girl again, however briefly. The image of the empty Quidditch pitch flashed into his mind, and he had a sudden burst of inspiration.

He sat down next to her. She did not look at him "I saw you at Quidditch practice," he said without preamble. Small talk had never been his forte.

She flushed. "I -- I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"What? What do you have to be sorry for? It's good for team morale to know that some people in the house care enough about the team to watch practice."

"Ron says I'm an annoying tagalong and should stay out of other people's way."

He was beginning to see how she could fall under the control of a sympathetic enchanted diary. He made a mental note to have a word with Ron Weasley at his earliest convenience. "I didn't know you liked Quidditch."

She looked up at him. There was a faint smile on her face. "It's only the most brilliant game in the whole world!"

He smiled. She was a girl after his own heart. "You saw how rubbish I was a practice?" She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her. "I was rubbish. Pretending otherwise doesn't do anyone any good. The way I let that penalty shot through was positively embarrassing," He took a deep breath. "I need to practice a lot more unless I want the Hufflepuff Chasers to go on a scoring bonanza. The pitch is free, but the rest of the team is busy. I can't practice unless I have someone else trying to score against me."

He grabbed her on the arm in what he hoped was a confidence-inspiring manner. "Someone like you."

She gaped at him. He had to repeat himself twice, though he didn't know if it was because she was in shock or because she thought he was joking. Finally, she nodded dumbly, and they set off in the direction of the pitch.

He led her to the broomshed. He would have preferred not to have to outfit her with one of the school brooms since they would have been all but useless in an actual match, but there was nothing for it. To his surprise, however, she reached for George's Cleansweep instead.

His surprise must have shown on his face. "Oh, I've been nicking his broom during the holidays for years. He's never noticed. Don't worry about it." She grinned at him. "Besides, I won't be much of a challenge for you if my broom can't keep up."

Clearly, he had underestimated Ginny Weasley. They walked the short distance to the pitch and he questioned her about her previous Quidditch experience.

"My brothers had me keep score when they had pickup games, but they never let me play. It was all right for them, but Merlin forbid their baby sister ever play." She launched into what Oliver thought was a very good impression of Fred. "You might break your jaw. Mum would kill us." She grew more animated with every word; he could almost see the dark circles under her eyes vanish as she talked.

"I've been practicing flying since I was six, but this is the first time I've ever really played with anyone. I just hope I'm not too dreadful."

"You'll do well enough, I expect. It's in your genes, after all."

He told her to fly around for a bit first to get used to carrying the Quaffle and flying at the same time. From the triple loop she executed after five minutes, he suspected that she had managed to sneak off for flying more often than during the summers and wondered just how diligent George was about practicing on his own time. She tossed the Quaffle toward the center group; it sailed through easily. He smiled. There was no denying that Ginny was a better than average flyer. It would be a few years before she would be ready to try out for the team, but he thought she had the makings of a great player someday if she kept at it.

She landed. Her eyes sparkled. It was time to get down to business. "On my signal, I want you to fly from the center of the pitch and try to score."

"None of this 'trying' business. I'll do it."

Oliver couldn't help but be pleased at her confidence. "Do it, then." He took his position at the goalposts. "Now."

Her first few attempts consisted of flying in a straight line as close to the scoring area as she could manage and attempting to toss the Quaffle over her shoulder. He blocked those attempts easily. She came close to ramming him a few times.

"Only Slytherins try to bludgeon their way through. They can get away with it because they're big, hulking brutes. You're not. You have to use finesse."

She nodded sharply. From then on, she did everything she could to attempt to mislead him. She faked throwing the Quaffle, waiting until his eyes darted in the direction she pretended to throw it before making her true attempt. She flew until she was almost right on top of him before swerving at the last possible moment. He was still blocking her from scoring, but it was by narrower and narrower margins each time. Once, he had to resort to a Starfish with Stick to stop her. He thought it was impressive, considering his size, but she burst into giggles.

"You look ridiculous hanging off your broom like that," she said.

He bristled. "A good Keeper doesn't care how ridiculous he looks. He only cares about stopping the other team from scoring,"

"You still looked silly."

They were both breathing hard now. Oliver was glad that they were alone; the rest of the team would have a field day if they knew a twelve-year-old girl was pushing him to the limit. Then, Fred and George would probably kill him for what they saw as putting Ginny in danger by letting her play. Never mind that he was the one in danger, the way she threw that Quaffle.

"It's getting late. I don't want you getting in trouble for being out past curfew. One more shot, and then I'll walk you back to the common room."

They assumed their positions. There was a determined gleam in Ginny's eyes that told him that she was going to do her best to get that Quaffle past him. The string of narrow failures must have gotten to her because she was back to flying in a straight line. She was almost on top of him now. He readied himself to block the shot. Instead of throwing the Quaffle she drew back a fist. He flinched instinctively, and she took advantage of his momentary distraction to score.

It was a few moments before he realized what happened. Then he laughed. "Transylvania Tackle. It serves me right for falling for it. Very good."

She laughed. "You don't watch my brothers play for as long as I have without picking up a few tricks."

They put their brooms away and began to walk back to Gryffindor Tower. He stole a sidelong glance at Ginny. She was still grinning like a fool, riding the high of her victory. Her expression was distracted once more, but there was nothing haunted in it. Mission accomplished.

They were almost back to the common room now. "Thank you, by the way," she said.

"It was nothing. I needed the practice."

"Can we do that again sometime?"

He thought it over. It would be much more difficult to arrange another one-on-one session like tonight. The season would be starting in earnest soon, and the pitch would be booked solid for the foreseeable future. Add in her apparent need to keep her love of Quidditch a secret, and it became nearly impossible. On the other hand, she looked so pleased with herself. She was a promising talent, but promising talent needed to be developed. Wasn't it his duty as Quidditch Captain to develop future stars for the house?

"I'll see what I can do."


End file.
